


Cor Aut Mors

by devera



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-13
Packaged: 2017-12-30 07:34:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devera/pseuds/devera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because Gordio belongs to a Roman doesn't mean he cannot give of himself freely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Comment porn written for indelicate ink in response to her awesome [Gladiator Gojyo sketch](http://indelicateink.livejournal.com/134593.html). There is utterly no resemblance to actual historical accuracy here, but of course that's not the point.

They pull him out of his room just before midnight. It is far from the first time, and yet it is the same time each time; a little before midnight. He is not sure of the significance, or even if there is any, but it is always the same. He knows this because by the time they have cuffed him up, dragged him up to the unused terrace room and secured him to the iron ring set into the stone wall, somewhere in the city beyond the walls that hold him, he can hear the Watch calling the middle hour.  
  
 _He_  appears a little after. He does not bother to come cloaked in secrecy, as some other patricians do. He knows there is no way Gordio will ever learn who he is beyond this: he is rich, powerful, and as beautiful a man as Gordio has ever seen. His smooth, creamy skin is always scented with the faintest hint of sandalwood, his dark hair is soft with the fragrance of chamomile and his robes are of the finest cloth. He does not speak, but he does not need to. His eyes, startlingly green, remind Gordio of the vast summer fields of a home he will never again see, and they say everything they need to.  
  
He comes to him and lays his hands upon Gordio, as he has each night. He touches him slowly, carefully, as if Gordio will break under his desire when he will not break in the arena, and Gordio soon feels his breath shorten, feels his cock fill, just another skill he has been trained for, as well as any slave, any soldier; all the nights when this man has never spoken, only touched him, kissed his flesh, gone to his knees and taken in his mouth Gordio's cock until Gordio has released into him with a stuttering gasp. Gordio could have resisted, fought him, this silent nobleman with his fine skin and his fine robes and his fine hands. Gordio could have gripped the iron ring above his head, raised his feet, put his muscled legs around the man's fine neck and squeezed until he strangled. Perhaps another man would have, for being so used. Perhaps another man would have chosen execution and an ignoble death – more ignoble even than that in the arena - to this shame, but somehow, Gordio does not feel shame.   
  
No, somehow he feels alive. Those fine hands stripping him of his garments until he is as naked, turning him towards the wall and lingeringly tracing the old tracks of blades Gordio has not been fast enough to dodge - they make him feel, they trace fire across his nerves, map him in lightning and ground him in helpless pleasure. He rests his forehead against the stone between his hanging arms as that fine mouth presses against his skin, as fine teeth bite lightly into his shoulders, shivers and tries to measure his breathing as he is touched, his nipples, between his legs, a too brief stroke of his flushed cock, but it is impossible because he is alive and he wants. Blood rushes through his veins, his heart pounds, every inch of his skin anticipates the next touch, and then the next, and when those same fine fingers skim down the curve of his back to the cheeks of his rear, slide between them, his voice lets out an harsh animal sound of acceptance.

The oil between his arse cheeks, the fingers pushing it into him, make him pant against his own skin, make him pray to all the gods he knows to make it stop and to make it never end. His face is hot, his throat dry, and then those fine fingers are gone and the man's fine cock is sliding in and Gordio cries out, not in pain, for this is not pain. Pain is the hot sand of the arena and the spill of blood and the bite of cold steel. It is being sold to the slave markets, his mother's back the last thing he sees before they chain him up and drag him away. It is his brother dying on the end of a pike in a place he'll never see. This, the push and the pressure of it, forcing him open, the man's hands gripping his hips, pulling him so his back bows in defeat, his normally even breathing heavy, erratic as he buggers him, is something more sublime than pain, and Gordio opens his mouth and pleas fall from his lips where he has never begged for mercy, for release in his life. And when it is given, like a gift, drawn from him in grateful shudders and spilling over soft, unblemished fingers, when the patrician finishes in him, his voice an almost audible groan muffled against Gordio's spine, Gordio is defeated again, moaning his surrender.  
  
It is a long time before the patrician pulls from him, his sweet heat fading as Gordio hangs there, arms aching, legs shaking, the man's issue dripping down his thighs. Eventually, the door opens and the guards return. Gordio cannot even feel shame at his state as they unlock him, and he does not look as askance as he is taken away. He does not belong to himself – his sweat and blood and pain on the arena floor are proof of that. He belongs to the people, to Rome, and he belongs to the man that owns him.   
  
But the pleasure, it is his. No one can take it from him, not this night, and not in the hard light of day, standing over the fallen, the defeated, sword raised to the roar of the crowd and there in the stand, a familiar fine face, looking down upon him like the sun, fine hands coming together in silent applause.  
  
Gordio smiles, salutes him, the conquered to the conqueror.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haterius has made his choice and accepted his fate. Fate of course has other ideas.

The need for secrecy this time is crucial. They bring him in the dead of night, bundled up in a rug; roll him out on the floor of Haterius' villa, naked but for a clean linen _campestre_ , and not for the first time – most certainly not – Gallio Cordius Haterius wonders what in Zeus' Holy Rod he thinks he's doing.

But then the slave blinks up at him through the red, rowdy curtain of his hair, his mouth soft and open in surprise when he sees him. Lust spears Haterius more surely than Cupid's arrow and he remembers what it is he is doing; he is systematically destroying himself and he thinks perhaps it is for so foolish a reason as love.

He cannot love this man, of course - he is a slave, a foreigner. He owns him, but he will never _know_ him. And yet still, there is something to which Haterius is drawn, something he cannot stop thinking about. All through the interminable hours in the Senate, all through evenings spent dining with his peers, wandering the streets and praying in the temples, he sees nothing but red. Days, then weeks, until the chime of cups in toast become the clang and clash of steel in the arena, the splash of wine that of blood, and he is forced to return. 

It must be fascination, or perhaps it is jealousy of a sorts. There is life in this man, a brutal will to live that Haterius knows he himself has lost. Perhaps he merely envies him the simplicity of it – fight or die; submit or die. Could Haterius' own life ever come down to such fundamental choices? No, it could not. So, perhaps it is that this slave, condemned into servitude, a prisoner of the arena for as long as he draws breath, is freer than Haterius will ever be. He derives enjoyment from the death he stares in the face in the arena and pleasure from what Haterius forces upon him after. There is no need for him to excuse it or apologise for it; he grins defiance at the crowds and moans in gladness as Haterius takes his body and in spite of it, or perhaps because of it, he is more vibrant and alive than anyone Haterius has ever laid eyes upon.

Haterius had wanted but a little taste of that, once; but once tasting it, like nectar, he wants a little more each time. And now, perhaps, he has gone too far. To own a slave, even to have carnal relations with one, is not uncommon. To remove that slave from the barracks is not unheard of either, but Haterius has not been himself lately and tonight he will do what no Roman should, and he will do it for reasons no Roman would.

And he sees that the slave suspects the worst; his face after the surprise has settled takes upon the pallor of a man who may measure the remainder of his life in finite numbers and Haterius suddenly wants to reassure him, apologise. It was never his intention to involve anyone else, and yet, after tonight's work was done, his thoughts had inexplicably turned to this man and this man alone. 

Haterius perhaps owes him an explanation, as one human being to another. He has already come to the conclusion that he is a weak and foolish man; it seemed hardly the worst thing he has done to bring this man here for one final assignation, but he honestly does not know where to start. So instead of explaining, he bends down and offers the slave his hand. 

The man freezes at the unconventional gesture, and Haterius waits, gazing back as the slave's eyes fix on his. They have never really looked at each other so before, but Haterius finds he has committed to memory every aspect of his features – his wide mouth and the generous sweep of his cheekbones, the line of his jaw and the scars that run in graceful arcs down his face, his eyes, a quality of brown in this light that almost renders them red, and his hair, soft, red, that Haterius has had knotted in his fist as he fucked him. His hand itches for the slide of it through his fingers again as he recalls, but he keeps it extended and after a long moment, the slave finally moves, sliding his hand into Haterius', callous rough, fingers nimble. Haterius grips it back and pulls him to his feet.

"I thought we might have supper together," he tells calmly him when he has released him. "I apologise for the mode of transport here, but it was necessary." He turns away but it is obvious the slave is staring. Haterius supposes he has every reason. "I understand the barracks food is simple but fortifying," he continues lightly as he walks over to the supper table he had the servants lay out. "I fear my own offerings are not much better, but there are summer fruits here from the south, and a nice wine from my vil-" 

He stops speaking, staring at the hand that has abruptly wrapped itself around his wrist; he hadn't even heard the man move but now he is standing at Haterius' side, staring still. His grip is not painful, but it is firm, urgent, warm.

"What are you doing?" the slave demands finally, his voice low, rough. Haterius is not sure he has ever heard him speak actual words other than in the heat of his passion, and his Latin is slow and careful and faintly accented with something Haterius might even recognise given enough time. "If anyone finds out you –" he begins, and then stops, as if it is a waste of time guessing at the outcomes. "And you want to have _supper_?"

Haterius smiles humourlessly. "Well, I thought it would be more civil to eat first, before we get to the buggering."

The slave barks out a laugh at that, equally humourless. " _That_ you could have done in the barracks, like a dozen other nights thus far."

"True," Haterius agrees amiably. "But tonight is… different."

"Why?"

Haterius gently disengages his hand from the slave's. Odd how that the man is likely stronger and much deadlier than Haterius himself, and yet Haterius feels nothing of threat from him. It would be so much simpler, perhaps, if this slave saw his opportunity, murdered Haterius and fled. But for what he has given, even unwillingly, Haterius would not wish upon him life as a fugitive from Imperial Rome, and in some sense he does owe him an explanation.

"Because tonight, as opposed to the other nights I have come to you, I had Centus Vultus Maximus assassinated," he says plainly. "Not very subtly, I should add, although I do suppose subtlety is not precisely my forte. Likely, his supporters and the city guard will come for me in the morning. I plan on resisting them as long as I am able and if I'm lucky, they will kill me."

"You jest," the slave says, but he is not laughing.

"Not in the slightest," Haterius says with a slight shake of his head, and reaches for the wine jug again to pour the slave a glass, yet another unconventional gesture. "The Senate will conclude it was political, of course, but it wasn't. You see, Centus forced my sister. As a consequence, last Fordicidia, she killed herself. Oh, I could prove nothing; not against a citizen of his standing and influence, but there was no doubt. He wanted her, tried to win her, offered me such things as most Romans only dream if I would marry her to him, but as her guardian I refused, because I love- because I-."

He doesn't understand why he suddenly cannot continue. Carina has been dead for a moon. He has thought of her every day since, has missed her every day since. He has accepted condolences and offerings for his loss from a hundred citizens, from the lowliest marketwoman to the most noble of senators' wives, has finalised all her affairs, pieced together the circumstances under which she died, and systematically planned to kill the man responsible, all with a kind of frozen calm that has kept the world at a distance, and yet…

And yet, suddenly his throat closes hotly on the words and his hand shakes as he holds the glass he filled for a slave, a man he barely knows but with whom he chose to spend his last hours, and his blood roars in his head and he cannot go on.

"…Master…" the slave says after a moment, taking the goblet from him and Haterius shakes his head again, this time sharply.

"Not that," he tells him, letting the cup go; a fitting metaphor for the acceptance he finally feels, now that Carina has had her vengeance. "Never that. I walk with one foot in the Underworld. I am already dead, and you… I merely wanted- You do not know what you have meant to- I-"

"Shhh," the slave murmurs, touching him again, turning him and stroking gentle fingers down the side of Haterius' face and Haterius feels as if he is finally, finally falling. After so long waiting, it is something of a relief.

"I am a selfish, arrogant man," he announces and it is shameful that he truly feels no shame for it. "I brought you here to satisfy my own needs. I took from you what you were unwilling to give."

But the slave does not accuse him. Instead, he strokes his face still, his fingers oddly soft, and a strange smile comes to him.

"Not unwilling," he contradicts. "Not that."

Haterius' heart shudders inside his chest and he forces himself on as if the slave had not spoken, because he cannot- he does not want to imagine that- 

"I should not have brought you here, no matter what I wished." He tries to step back, but the supper table is behind him and there is nowhere to go. "I will have you returned. No one will know. I have paid well for the silence of reliable men. You will be as safe as I can make you and you will go with my humblest apologies and my sincerest gratitude for ever having imposed…upon… your…"

The slave smiles again as Haterius trails off, and perhaps it is the quality of that look that makes Haterius do so. More likely it is the fact that the slave is lowering himself slowly and deliberately to his knees in front of him, his gaze holding Haterius' even when he is fully settled on the floor between Haterius' legs.

"I suppose my grasp of Latin still lacks," he begins conversationally, although Haterius can't remember ever having had a conversation where strong hands are slowly kneading his thighs through his robes and a wide mouth is hovering in the vicinity of his member. He blinks, comically he suspects for the slave grins then, sharp and wolfish, as if fresh from a kill.

"What?" Haterius says in confusion. "Your Latin?"

"Yes," the slave says. " _Impositio_. To place unfairly upon. To burden. I'm trying to work out exactly how 'more' and 'harder' and 'yes, fuck me' relate in practice to the concept of obligation but perhaps my Latin is inadequate."

Haterius gapes. Certainly, he _remembers_ words to that effect, but… 

"Had you refused, had you fought," he almost stammers. "It would have been well within my rights. I would have had you executed."

The slave only smiles again, this time knowingly. "No you wouldn't," he counters, sounding sure.

Haterius stares down at him. "No, I wouldn't," he agrees.

"And so, you tell me that it is your intention to die tonight, and that your final wish was for me to be rolled up in a rug and brought to your home, and now you will send me away without having what it was you wanted?"

"I…" Haterius starts.

"When I am more than willing to give it."

It is on the tip of Haterius' tongue to argue, but the slave's hands are massaging closer and closer to his member and Haterius is responding, hardening, cannot help but. The nights he has spent with him, in him, have kept Haterius sane, and now, though Haterius is a selfish and callow man, he is _offering_. Freely. It is the greatest gift a man such as he could perhaps give and Haterius hardly has the words, can only reach down and touch his face in soft gratitude, his fingertips rubbing a little covetously against that long red hair.

"You used your mouth on me," the slave reminds huskily, pushing into his hand for a moment like a domesticated dog before his fingers begin slowly, deftly gathering up the length of Haterius' robe. "But you never had me in that way." It sounds like a question. 

"No," Haterius says evenly and it is not an answer.

The slave licks his lips, and smiles again, and Haterius, newly exposed to the cool evening air, shivers and finds he cannot speak any further.

+++

Haterius is not gentle, after that. He holds the slave's mouth on him, crying out roughly at the frantic way in which the man sucks at him, as if he wants this from Haterius as badly as Haterius needs it from him, regardless of what Haterius has taken. Haterius thrusts with no care to the man's comfort, until he empties, and then he turns, gasping, and sweeps the forgotten supper from the table, presenting his back. He is in no way disappointed then, not with the shaking eagerness with which the slave mounts him, muffling desperate sounds against his skin, nor the way in which Haterius reaches his own climax again, panting and shuddering as the fire shared between them consumes his senses.

Later, they lie together on the daybed, and Haterius cannot bring himself to stop touching him. How someone so designed for battle should feel so good against him, Haterius hardly understands.

"Your name," Haterius sighs after a time, and the slave shifts against him, making a vague sound of agreement.

"Gordio," the slave says, not looking at him. "But this you knew."

"True," Haterius agrees casually. "Gallio Cordius Gordio. It looked good on paper. Which I suppose it would be useful to mention are in the top bureau drawer in the library, since it not likely I can have you back to the barracks before the guard arrive. After I am taken, you will likely want to hurry to retrieve them in case they don't believe you."

The slave – well, he is a slave no longer in truth for as his final act, Haterius has put his seal to papers awarding his freedom in totality – does not move in Haterius' arms for a very long moment.

"You…" he begins, very slowly and carefully. "You freed me?"

Haterius doesn't speak until the man lifts his head to stare at him, and then he smiles.

"I left my head man with instructions to set things in motion tomorrow but you may get them yourself instead, now. Consider it my thanks for making yourself so… accommodating."

"Accommodating," Gordio repeats, staring.

Haterius shrugs. "Also, there is no one else I can leave any kind of legacy to. I named you as possessor of my properties, but I expect after the inquiry the state will claim most of it. What's left is yours to do with as you will. I just ask that you make offerings to my sister's grave at Feralia and sacrifices at Lemuria. My spirit likely doesn't deserve to be at peace, but the gods will smile more kindly upon you if you-"

"No. Wait. Stop."

Haterius blinks and does indeed stop.

"You –" Gordio starts, and his face is dark as he gazes down upon Haterius. "Fuck you."

Haterius quirks his mouth slightly. There's no real humour in that either. "Well, you recently have, but we likely have time for a repeat performance if you so desire."

"No," Gordio grates, as if he is arguing, although about what Haterius is unable to say. He shakes Haterius once, quite sharply, and then throws himself to his feet and stalks towards the other side of the room, unconcerned with his nakedness and in the soft hint of morning light Haterius can see bleeding through the blinds he looks like a god himself. "You -" He swings back towards where Haterius still reclines, equally naked, and whatever he says then – by the sound of it in his native language – is angry, frustrated sounding and clearly not meant to be complimentary.

Haterius watches him bemusedly. "You are objecting to my gifts?" he asks. "I would have thought you'd-"

"No!" Gordio snaps and is back on the bed in a flash, his hands gripping Haterius shoulders, pressing him into the cushions. "That's not– You can't-"

This close, Haterius can no longer pretend he does not understand what Gordio, what the gladiator in him, is trying to say. Life in the arena is a thing for which one fights tooth and nail with every weapon at one's disposal. He supposes if he were a gladiator himself, he would be committing the ultimate sin, but since he is not, he finds he feels no moral dilemma at the thought.

"I am sorry," he says softly.

Gordio's face above him seems to be holding something in, but his eyes are stark, wounded.

"No, you're not," he accuses, but Haterius only smiles and reaches up for him, slowly, to give him time.

"No," he disagrees, as he draws the man down to him again. "I think perhaps I am. Too late, perhaps, but such is life."

+++

They fuck again. In the early morning light, Gordio rides him, clinging, silent, and Haterius kisses him everywhere he can reach, no longer caring about any sort of propriety or boundaries. He has broken them all and there is nothing left for him to break.

After, Gordio slumps into sleep, and Haterius eventually rises from the bed and slips back into his discarded robes, and goes and secures the house against the invasion to come. Then he takes his father's sword from its place on the mantle in the anteroom and sits down to wait.

He jerks awake to pounding on his door. It's a minor thing in comparison to the pounding of his heart, but he makes himself stand, widens his stance and readjusts his grip on the hilt of his sword.

"Jupiter's balls," comes Gordio's quite clear voice beside him. "Don't they know where your door bell is?"

Haterius turns, and Gordio is standing at his side, dressed in his father's old centurion breastplate, braces and sporran over one of Haterius' own tunics. Haterius stares at him.

"I expect," he says slowly, "that they don't care to use it."

Gordio huffs, unimpressed. "Noisy pig-fuckers."

The pounding continues, accompanied now by the dull thud of an axe against the wood, but Haterius cannot seem to look anywhere but at Gordio's face.

"What are you doing?" he demands eventually, and Gordio throws him a grin.

"What I was trained to do. Any objections? Because you know, if you have any, I'm a freedman and I can actually do as I please, or so I am given to understand."

Haterius blinks at him, open mouthed. "I –" he tries, but the pounding of his heart no longer feels like the pounding of angry fists against his door.

"So," Gordio says lightly, but with an edge to match the unexpected surge in Haterius' blood. "I'm thinking Britannia is nice this time of year. What do you say?"

"I think," Haterius says, reaching over to grip Gordio around the wrist briefly and squeeze, just as something in his chest is squeezing at the man's words, "that we should perhaps go further west."

"West, eh?" Gordio grins. "What's west?"

Haterius feels himself smiling, and perhaps he doesn't deserve to, but suddenly he doesn't care. He always was a selfish man.

"I have no idea," he says, and Gordio smiles again, and then quickly leans over and kisses him on the mouth, just as the wooden lock on the door splinters and his enemies – _their_ enemies – come rushing in.


End file.
